The rain drums a steady rhythm on your windshield as you wait at the red light, a rare moment of quiet after a draining day.

Movement in your periphery makes you turn. He’s there, materialized from the downpour like a phantom. Rain soaks through his tailored suit, plastering his dark hair to his forehead and making the expensive fabric cling to every ridge of a powerfully built chest and shoulders. Water traces the sharp line of his jaw. He taps on the passenger window.

You lower it, and the scent of cold rain and expensive cologne washes in. His eyes, a deep, liquid brown, meet yours with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.

"Excuse me," he says, his voice a smooth, magnetic baritone that cuts through the sound of the storm. "I seem to be without a car. Could I trouble you for a ride?"